The Consequences of an Altered Dimension
by Satirical Maverick
Summary: With the Time Room in the Department of Mysteries being a poor choice for a hazardous battle to take place in, their well-intended mission to rescue Harry's godfather turned to pandemonium. They now find themselves lost in time, and many others are stuck in a broken timeline. This is the story of how people across time and space decide to deal with that.
1. Bad News

There was an itch at the back of her mind.

Not a literal itch, mind, but it was the closest she could get to describing it.

Hermione glowered slightly and tried to focus on the task in front of her. They were supposed to be Vanishing a cat that day.

( _Vanishment is the third most difficult branch of Transfiguration. While they are easier than Conjuring Spells, it's still among the most difficult subjects they would have to be tested on their O.W.L.s._ )

" _Evanesco_."

This would be the third cat she Vanished within the period.

Her professor was notably impressed, as she was the only one who had been able to succeed in this feat of magic within the last hour. Somehow, her heart didn't swell in pride as it normally would. The unease at the back of her mind wouldn't leave her.

"How are you doing that?" The person next to her hissed. Brown eyes snapped to the dark girl next to her. Her arm movements were rigid and impatient—too curt for this kind of spell work.

"You're restricting your movements too much," Hermione noted absently. It took her a moment for her to connect to the words that left her mouth, but the damage was already done. She frowned. It wasn't in her nature to be so curt in her answers; she tended to elaborate. Her friends were rubbing off on her.

The girl beside her huffed, affronted, but took her advice anyway. She aimed the wand at the striped feline in front of her and allowed her arm to move more freely. A muttered spell later, the cat flickered in and out of the state of being for a few seconds before the spell ultimately failed.

 _Seventeen seconds. That's seventeen seconds longer than her other attempts, at least_.

Hermione watched her try again anyway, frowning all the while.

There were fifteen of them in the class. The spell was notorious for being one of the "first" properly difficult spells to master in their O.W.L.s, so it wasn't much of a surprise to see the lack of success around her. However, while it usually didn't take too long for her to master a spell before the hour was up, this level of success was off even for her.

( _In Transfiguration, there is a number of variables that directly influence the outcome of the desired Transfiguration. The body weight and "viciousness" of the subject limited the success of the spell, which is why Transfigurations involving larger animals were tricky. The amount of wand power and concentration you pour into a spell would increase the chances of its success, but there are also factors that can work in your favor—such as wand movement and pronunciation of the incantation—that vary from one wizard to another_ )

Hermione usually started with the fundamental understanding of the magical theory involved in the Transfigurations process, followed by the understanding of the limiting factors of the subject to be Transfigured. She was able to determine the wand power needed for the spell based on that criteria, and concentration was something that naturally came to her while working anyway. What she usually had to tweak with a bit of practice were the other factors like _wand movement_.

She had gotten that correctly on her first try. It felt completely natural.

Others would have been pleased with this. Others would have brushed it aside and assume that it was a sign of progression on their part. Others wouldn't have doubted the inconsistency in their development. ( _Wizards always did tend to lack the logic more common to their Muggle counterparts._ )

It wouldn't have caused worry if it was her wand power that spiked ( _—the growth of the magical core during puberty was common, and magical spikes due to hormonal imbalance wasn't unheard of—_ ) but the fact that she executed the spell as easily as if her movements were practiced unsettled her.

Maybe she was getting a more instinctive grasp on magic, due to the amount of time she's spent practicing? But this was a _new_ spell. It had only been demonstrated to them not even an hour ago. Besides, none of the other spells she's casted had been this accurate. If this was part of some "natural settlement" into magic, it should have showed signs of progress earlier. To have suddenly just "become good at it" was out of the question.

She'd been trying the spell several times over, and her arm still moved in the same way as it had the first time she casted it. She ignored the dark murmurs of " _show-off_ " behind her as she waited for her movements to deviate from the pattern. Wand waving during the first hour of the application was usually erratic, and slight changes constantly had to be made.

Once again, she aimed her wand at the cat in front of her.

" _Evanesco_."

She was already absently Summoning another cat from the box beside her before the spell even hit. Her eyes never strayed away while she watched the feline flee into nonbeing before her ( _it didn't start Vanishing from one end to the other—it Vanished completely and instantly—unlike how the other students around her were finally progressing_ ), and it was this intense concentration that made her take minutes to realize that no cat had taken the place of the previous one.

"Very well done, Miss Granger!" A gruff voice startled her out of her observation. "However, I think you may want to leave some for the rest of the class. There's only a few boxfuls left, and we aren't to start discussing Conjuring until next month."

( _Conjuration is absolute opposite of Vanishment; the ability to transfigure objects "out of thin air". Usually only taught in advance Transfiguration to N.E.W.T. students due to its complexity, the only form of Transfiguration that exceeds Conjuration in difficulty is Human Transfiguration._ )

"Oh," she replied, slightly pink. "Yes, of course."

She started packing her things instead. It was a moot point anyway; aside from the abnormally perfect execution of the spell, she wasn't able to note anything significant from the exercise. Her notes were lacking in this subject, and if she wanted more data she would have to wait for the bell to get to the library.

* * *

The party lived up to Slughorn's usual style. The room was large enough to be filled with the most important and the well-connected, mingling and weaving through dancing crowds. The food was plentiful and exquisite, and there was a band playing on upbeat trumpets in a style not too far from the jazz Tom heard from the surprisingly resilient bistros he had to pass by when walking back to the orphanage.

Nested cozily in one of Slughorn's fine chairs and watching the gold plates magically fill themselves with pastries Tom had never even known of out of thin air always hit him with a curious mix of contentedness and wrath.

Ever since he stepped foot inside Hogwarts, he knew that _this_ is how his life should be. Watching every menial interaction between entitled purebloods who knew nothing of the privilege of simply having food fit for one on the table showed him how living among muggles had denied him his rights.

But here, in Slughorn's little club for the elite…it was among his favorite places.

This was his court, where the food was better than even Hogwarts food (—a feat he had not even thought was possible—) and those who counted knew to respect him. He was deserving of all this luxury more than half of them, he knew. With every sleepless hour he spent pouring into practice, every House point earned, every measured word that came out of his mouth—he deserved this. He deserved their looks of envy, their malicious eyes that screamed of frustration at having been beaten by someone "beneath their status". He'd transformed himself from that lowly creature of coal and hunger to one made of diamonds with all the force he could muster.

Even better still was when he was with his Knights in these gatherings.

There were six of them at the table. He let a fraction of a smile slip through when one of them—Avery—apparently made a joke, not really minding the trivial conversation that went on. He was busy admiring his collection.

He'd always loved collecting, ever since he learned the merits of keeping things. Books, discarded clothes, old photos—the orphanage had been conducive to his little acts of keeping, especially when it came to keeping things that would keep _him_ safe.

(He still frowned whenever he remembered Dumbledore setting his closet on fire when he was eleven. He would never forget the amount of fright that filled his heart the moment he thought he no longer had Juniper Jones' doll to keep her boyfriend from beating him)

Years ago, when he was starting to make a name for himself, he supposed that the reason why he could play old Sluggy like a fiddle was because he understood his collection of people. Now, though, he knew that Horace Slughorn didn't nearly make use of his collection as productively as _he_ could.

"—did you know? Well—I suppose it is too soon, but your sister's bound to have passed the word by now, about that incident in the Department of Mysteries—"

"Not from Athene, no. She does value her internship, and you know how the Unspeakables are. But Althaea Smethwyck's a student healer at St. Mungo's, and she had to help rush some poor bloke to the Spell Damage floor. There was a fit over whether or not they should send him straight to the Janus Thickey Ward—"

And what a collection it was.

In front of him was Avery, whose elfish features added to his overall appearance of poise and whose measured smiles betrayed the barest hint of self-assurance. To Tom, the way he carried himself screamed of the pride he had that stemmed from his privileged background. His restraint from flaunting the fact showed him that it wasn't because it he was modest, but because it wasn't necessary.

"—that bad? And what was he doing in the Department of Mysteries, anyway?"

"Why, indeed!" Slughorn said, eyes glittering. "And why the Time Chamber, of all places?"

"The _Time Room_?" Avery asked. "Did he try to nick a Time-Turner or something?"

Beside Avery was Nott, who was pale as a corpse, with dark eyes large and sharp—always ready to carefully pick out weaknesses to take advantage of. He was Tom's least favorite type of Slytherin; the weak seeking for protection, with too much cowardice to accommodate the grandeur of their ambitions. His only redeeming trait was his willingness to serve the powerful, but he supposed it was good that he had one more family from the Sacred 28 (the 28 "truly pureblood" families in Britain—to which Avery and Lestrange were included) on his side.

"What was he doing there, professor?" Nott asked. " _Surely_ you must know about it."

"Well, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to let out this little secret," the man replied coyly before continuing. "They found him all roughed up and bewildered in the Time Room saying he's from a decade in the future!"

Mulciber sat beside him on his left. Mulciber who was always almost as brilliant as Tom himself, but whose soft, mercurial eyes betrayed his kinder nature. The gentleness of his soft features made a sharp contrast with his nature; quick, lively, and hands rough with callouses from tinkering with metals.

"—planning to admit him in Hogwarts when he's right again, but they do believe it's genuine—"

To his right and seated at the head of the table was Lestrange. The boy had his body turned towards Tom, attentive, despite the latter's lack of contribution to the ongoing conversation. Black curls stylishly swept to the right side of his face, well-dressed and laid-back, he made the perfect picture of a well-off schoolboy.

In fact, all of them were conscious of his presence despite his silence. All of them, despite their age or purity of blood, had their attention finely tuned to take note of his presence. And now all of them were faithfully at his bidding.

Tom covered his smile by raising his glass for a drink.

He'd forced them to notice him—to notice his superiority—them and everyone else. He'd work twice as hard and tripled their class performances combined, carefully treaded the social circles for the most useful, the most cunning, and the ones with the most potential, and now he was prefect. The poor orphan boy from a filthy muggle family, practically running the school.

"—just as well. I've been meaning to ask, Tom, if you could perhaps help orient him to the place? Show him around, get him to know others? Poor boy doesn't have anyone, you know?"

 _Help you keep your claim on him, you mean_ , Tom translated.

"I would be honored, sir," he smiled, ever the helpful scholar.

* * *

He was facing a familiar door—the one that haunted his dreams for so many months. But now, instead of a shadowy corridor, he was in a circular hallway that was simultaneously too large and too small. Doors circled all around him, always moving, pushing him too close to the walls.

 _Harry!_ They cried out with the voices of his friends. _Harry, where are you?_

He turned frantically around, trying to force open the doors. Where were they? The doors moved rapidly around him again, leaping over and under him, moving damningly fast such that he couldn't see the bright red X's Hermione seared unto them.

Which one, _which one_?

RON, he yelled. LUNA! GINNY!

They'd been separated, and now his friends were lost, vulnerable to the Death Eaters.

HERMIONE! RON! NEVILLE!

He could hear voices.

The room swung again and now he as facing a stone archway with a black curtain slightly fluttering. He tried to understand what the furious whispers meant, tried to see if it was Ron or Hermione waiting for him on the other side of it, but he couldn't hear it as well. It was as if the whispers didn't come from the archway, which didn't make sense. He'd heard the whispers come from it before, but now it was as if the voices came not in front of him, but slightly _above_ him.

He could hear one of the doors creak open to his right. The long tentacles of a brain fell out and roped around his arms the same way it had around Ron's.

HARRY, DON'T GIVE IT TO THEM, Neville shrieked.

The tentacles wrapped themselves ever tighter, closing in near his neck—

Something cold and wet touched his head.

A damp cloth fell from his forehead as he bolted upright, heart beating wildly.

"Wha—?" He tried to voice out, his throat feeling all scratched up. The bright, clinical light of the room jarred him, making a great contrast from the darkness that previously engulfed him.

He blinked owlishly around, trying to make sense of the shapeless figures around him.

"Here," someone on his right said, handing him his glasses.

It took him a moment for the stranger beside his bed to come into focus.

A beaded headband pushed back the woman's hair like a miniature grey cloud, and the patient look she wore on her kind, leathery face was a far cry from the pale, gaunt faces of the dark wizards that pursued them—

The words flew from his mouth before he even thought about it.

"There's about a dozen Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries right now and they've trapped my friends—chased us from the room with the glass balls—prophecies, I think—through the one with the clocks—" he blurted, hands absently searching under his covers. "Where's my wand?"

"Son, I think you better take this," the dark-skinned witch said, handing him a cup of what he recognized as a Calming Draught.

He pushed the cup back. "I don't need a potion. Please," he clutched her had instead, thinking he hadn't expressed the extreme gravity of the situation to the witch. "It's five of us against a dozen dark wizards, and I'm sure at least three of them are from Azkaban."

"Tea, then, at least," the witch replied, patting his hands comfortingly.

True to word, a teapot appeared on the tray on the bedside table. She filled him a cup and handed it to him. He could smell the soothing scent of mint and raised the cup to his lips, only pausing when he noticed the woman's gaze on his right hand. _I must not tell lies_ , the scars pressed noticeably against his hand. The witch caught herself and tried to cover it with a sheepish smile, but the damage was done.

Harry raised the cup again and pressed his lips against the rim, but this time only pretended to drink, remembering Umbridge's attempts back in detention. He didn't know how many rules they broke when they rushed out of their O.W.L.s, flew to London, and battled in one of the Ministry's departments—he was sure they'd broken _at least_ one law somewhere—but he wasn't keen on burying the lot of them even further in this mess.

"They've got them surrounded," he continued, "the three of us got separated—Ron Weasley, Luna Lovegood, and Ginny Weasley—Ron got caught with a confounding spell of some sort—I'm with Neville Longbottom and Hermione—where's Hermione?"

He looked about him as if his friends might just be around the corner, but stopped when he caught sight of the look the witch on his bedside was throwing him.

New-found terror crept into his heart as he became more aware of his surroundings. He was alone. (Not exactly—the hospital ward also had several other patrons, but he was the only one of his friends to be there and that was all he could think)

"Where am I," he said slowly, ears ringing, "and how did you find me?"

"You're in St. Mungo's Hospital's Spell Damage floor," the witch said equally slowly. "And I found you in the Department of Mystery's Time Chamber. I'm the Unspeakable assigned there. My name's Janna."

Harry didn't bother to introduce himself because it was around this time that he started to notice she smiled with an air of someone who knew more than they said, but didn't know how to relay it.

"I found you sleeping near one of the bell jars," she added when he didn't say anything. "Hauled you away. Believe me, you do _not_ want to be near one of those."

Memories of a full-grown Death Eater with a baby's head instead of an adult one bumping and running against the walls flashed through Harry's mind.

"You're Harry Potter?" She said curiously, not really asking. "We found this on you," she explained, handing him a button. _Harry Potter, Rescue Mission_ , it said.

"Who needed rescuing in the DOM?" She asked.

"No one—that is, it was a trap," he replied. "Voldemort made me think that my g—friend was held hostage, but he only wanted to get a prophecy for him. S'been trying to for months."

Not waiting for the witch to claim him mad (as Ministry workers had been prone to do as of late), he rushed on to say, "look, you say you're an Unspeakable? Broderick Bode? He's an Unspeakable, too. Death Eaters tried to Imperius him into steal the stupid thing for them, but he put up a fight. Got spell damage from whatever it is you spray on the shelves, but started to get better, so they snuffed him by sending a Devil's Snare as a Christmas present."

"We got to there and found out it was a false message," he said grimly. "Tried to get out of there as fast as we can, but we had to battle it out with those Death Eaters dead on our heels."

"Death Eaters?" The witch repeated. "What did they look like? Were they human?"

Harry shot her an odd look.

"Death Eaters—Voldemort's little workmen. You know—keeps their faces covered with metal masks, wears dark cloaks—typical dark wizard garb?"

"I see." The witch said. "Listen, you might really want to consider downing a dose before I continue," she added, nodding towards the Calming Draught she set on the nightstand. She stared him down until he complied.

"Alright," she started, looking very much like she was bracing herself to deliver Bad News. Harry's heart sank.

 _Please,_ please _, let them be okay_ , he prayed silently. _Ron, Neville—everyone. Please let them be safe._

"You see, Harry," Janna said gently, "when I found you, we immediately went and tried to call your Head of House." She nodded at his wrinkled uniform in acknowledgement. "We were surprised to discover that there aren't any records of a ' _Harry Potter_ ' in Hogwarts. There weren't any records anywhere else in the Magical Britain at all—I hope you don't mind, but we took some of your hair for that in case your name _isn't_ Harry Potter.

"Even stranger, still, is that when we tried to match your magic to current living wizards and witches in search of a relation, there _was_ a very close match in the Potter family, but the Potters have tried for a child for years, which doesn't seem likely of a chance given your age. In fact, your age threw off a lot of the results, so we wondered…why _were_ you in the Time Chamber?

"So if you don't mind giving us a hand, Harry," Danna said, eyes sparkling, "if I handed you a copy of the _Prophet_ , what date would you say it is?"

Harry, who was very taken aback by the sincerity with which Danna claimed not to know him—a truly remarkable feat seeing how the _Prophet_ 's has relentlessly been slamming his name for _months_ —simply answered, "er, June. June eighteen…Nineteen Ninety-Six," he added when Danna held her expecting gaze.

"Remarkable," the elderly witch breathed wondrously. "Simply _remarkable_ , son. Do you feel fine? Not feeling dizzy or anything of that sort?"

"…er, no…"

Danna nodded. "Of course. Well, then, there's no way round it. Mister Potter," she said, and even held out her hand like they were properly meeting for the first time. With both hands clasped around Harry's own, she smiled at him warmly and handed him the worst news he had ever had the misfortune to receive.

He took in the flashy headlines (' _MAGIC TO THE RESCUE?_ _MINISTER OF MAGIC IN CAHOOTS WITH MUGGLE PRIME MINISTER_ ') with concern and a small amount of confusion.

Harry (who had been desperately praying not to see photos of his friends' corpses or the like on the front page) felt slightly relieved for a moment before something on the upper right corner of the page caught his eye and the world came crashing down on him.

It had to be a lie.

Another convoluted scheme Voldemort had orchestrated to mess with his head again.

It had to be.

' _October 21, 1942_ ' read the blasted paper.


	2. Disastrous Trips to the Ministry

The Janus Thickey Ward in Saint Mungo's Hospital wasn't used to getting a lot of visitors. The ward was set aside for those whose maladies were so severe that the only viable option was to keep them in intensive care for an indefinite amount of time. As such, there were only ever a couple or so people admitted to this ward, with maybe two or three visitors every so often.

Today, however, there were seven people crowding one of the beds. This particular bed had a very peculiar fifteen year old boy on it, and this particular crowd was being awfully loud, much to the despair of the Mediwitch on duty.

"—should get him out of here as soon as possible—"

"—for Merlin's sake, the boy's much too weak in his condition. He needs _rest_ —"

"—what he _needs_ is for you to keep your voices down! You're disturbing the other patients. This isn't a marketplace—"

Sadly, the Mediwitch's concerns fell on deaf ears. The Unspeakables had come in gradually, and as more of them gathered, they'd immediately started discussing what to do with the time traveler. The gravity of the situation made the lot of them forget that the time and place to discuss this wasn't in the same room as the recovering patient.

It was a pity, really, that the Department of Mysteries pushed the boundaries of order in the Ministry.

The DOM didn't have offices assigned for the Head Unspeakables. The DOM had seven main doors and five false ones that served to confuse trespassers (of the seven doors, there was one that couldn't be accessed through the revolving Entrance Chamber, which led to the DOM labs and was considered nothing short of sacred). There wasn't a formal conference room for the Unspeakables to meet and they didn't see much point in wasting funds on one. Rather, the Unspeakables had gotten used to congregating to one of the labs and discussing important matters even while working.

It is also interesting to note that while the other Ministry departments had a nice hierarchy with a "Head" at the very top working for them, the DOM had _several_ "Head Unspeakables" (one for each of the six main chambers for the study of the magical constants).

Since there was no singular official that passed supreme decisions for the entire department, the Head Unspeakables were locked in a heated debate over the situation of one time travelling Harry Potter, particularly on who was responsible for the boy and what that responsibility meant.

"We can keep him under observation. Keep him away from external influences so he doesn't cause too many rifts," one of the men started, only to be cut off by the witch beside him.

"And let him sulk here until he gives in to depression?" She retorted.

"He needs to rest, anyway! Look at him, fragile as a bone!"

"— _keep your voice down—_ "

"Bones aren't fragile," another one chimed in.

"He needs to regain a sense of normalcy," the witch continued. "He needs a support group, it's healthy. Right, Louise?"

"Maybe we can leave him at the Potters'," one of them mused. "Dress him up nice and warm and drop him off at their doorstep. They'll love it."

There was an audible snort.

"Will you bring him in a basket and leave a note, too?"

"—don't answer that—"

"Maybe we should talk to Headmaster Dippet again—"

" _Or_ we could ask him," another wizard said, bringing their attention to the boy slowly gaining consciousness.

The eldest of the group shot a stern look at the lot of them.

"Settle down and behave yourselves," she declared.

The boy stirred in his sleep, blinking his eyes from the brightness of the room. Despite being given a Dreamless Sleep potion and a Calming Draught before going to bed, there were prominent shadows beneath his eyes. His eyes felt itchy and there was a painful scratch in his throat with each breath he took.

He had first thrown a fit when they told him about his situation, after the effects of the first dose of Calming Draught wore off. He argued that they were either demented or that _he_ was demented and raced off. They were close to calling the Aurors when one of them found him back in the Time Chamber, glowering at one of the bell jars. The ease with which the boy had managed to get through the wards of hospital security and even get back into the Department of Mysteries was unnerving, but not nearly as unnerving as how damaged the boy obviously was.

When they'd managed to get him back to the hospital and calm him down, they casted diagnostic spells on him. They had come to the conclusion that the boy was in the same condition as Aurors that had went to war. They were forced to contemplate how a fifteen year old Hogwarts student could have gotten the injuries sustained by his thin frame and the way he reacted to people.

The very presence of Harry Potter forced them to contemplate many undesirable possibilities.

Still in bed, Harry caught sight of the old witch that had handed him that blasted _Prophet_ article.

"You're still here?" He greeted stiffly.

"Do you not want me to be here?" Janna replied in a measured voice.

"I thought I made it clear that I don't want any of this to be here."

"Rude," a redheaded man with a beard commented.

Harry shot a look at the people surrounding him with a curious mix of disinterest and suspicion.

"Brought friends?" He asked Janna.

She smiled in a way she hoped to come across as non-threatening.

"Harry, I'd like you to meet the Head Unspeakables," she said.

"This is Pandora," she gestured at a petite young witch with curiously silver hair that reminded him of Luna. "She's in charge of the Brain Room."

She nodded to the redhead that called him rude. "Tiresias. He handles the Hall of Prophecy."

The next witch had long dreadlocks that twisted around her face like snakes.

"Meadus—" This earned her a glance from Harry.

"You can call me _Mae_ ," she said. He continued to idly eye her hair.

"I know what it looks like," she said bluntly while Janna introduced her as the Head Unspeakable for the Love Chamber.

In truth, Harry was less focused on the irony of her name. He had been reminded of another witch with a taste for distinct hairstyles and distaste for her first name.

"—and Vita's in charge of the Death Chamber. Blastov here has Space," Janna finished.

Vita was a tall man with dark, feathery hair and a thin beard that framed his smile nicely. In contrast, Blastov had no trace of hair at all on his head except for his thin eyebrows.

"Er, hi," Harry said, not really knowing why he had to meet these people. Janna smiled at this.

"We're the ones who may be able to help you with this, dear," Janna told him eagerly.

"…' _help me_ '? Sounds ominous," Harry said. "Help me how? I'm already in a hospital. What, are you planning on running experiments on me? Get in my mind? Strip me down and turn me into one of those creepy brain squid things?"

"Don't be absurd," Pandora said from his right. "Why would we do that to _you_? "

"Well, it's either you're all mad and that's the kind of thing mad people do," he started to list off. " _I'm_ mad and that's the kind of thing people do to mad people, or this is Voldemort being a dick and that would be the kind of thing sadists like him do."

Pandora rolled her eyes.

"Rather narcissistic of you. Not to mention paranoid. I meant why _you_ in particular? I doubt the mind of a traumatized teenager will be able to contribute much to the study of human thought—"

She paused and squinted her blue eyes at him, then seemed to reconsider.

"Wait, maybe it can."

Harry didn't know what to feel about that comment. Luckily, Janna saved him from having to react.

"The Ministry's currently busy trying to figure out what to do with you," she said. "Technically, you should be considered a ward of the Ministry, but there isn't any real orphanages in this side of the continent. They also can't prove you're _from here_ , which is important for that to even be considered due to legal matters.

"Either way, we won't allow them to take you, since your presence alone is a tricky matter to handle, being a time traveler and all. The Potters want to take their claim of you, but before we can consider doing that, we have to figure out how that's going to affect everything on a larger scale.

(' _The Potters'?_ Harry thought. _I…do they…I have family?_ )

"So, for the time being, _we're_ your legal guardians," Janna finished.

Everyone remained silent to let Harry digest this, before Blastov spoke up to put in his two Knuts.

"For the record, I am _completely_ in favor of dropping him at the Potters'," he said.

Harry felt a tad bit insulted.

Janna and Mae glared at him, while Pandora wore a disapproving look.

"What? It's nothing personal. The amount of paperwork's going to be hellish."

Tiresias hit him lightly on his shoulder. "We can't just pretend this never happened, you know."

"Widespread Memory Charms," Blastov challenged. "Far less paperwork."

"That's unreasonable. And illegal."

"Easy for _you_ to say," he directed to Vita. "See, what's going to happen is that Janna's going to do most of the work trying to sort this out with her time pieces. Since she'll be busy doing _that_ , Pandora and Mae would want to help make sure the guy's settling nice and easy and maybe run a few errands. Tiresias's always off doing one thing or another. _I'm_ going to end up having to walk the paperwork!"

"Come on, mate. You have me," Vita said, flinging an arm over his shoulder.

"You _always_ make me do the paperwork."

"Not always. It's just that you're better at talking to people for this—"

"—who am I even supposed to send the reports to, ever wondered that? The Minister? The 'Head of the DOM'? Those bloody archivers? _Every_ time—"

"Harry's staying under our care. Blastov, stop causing a scene," Janna's voice carried over the bald man's rambles. "Vita, be sure to help Blastov with the paperwork. We are handling lives and this is a _shared_ responsibility." She sent Vita a serious look, who returned a sheepish smile.

"We're going to do our best to try and fix this," Janna said strongly.

Between their oddly transparent behavior and his easy inclusion into "adult matters" that gravely included him, Harry started to question what kind of crowd he'd landed himself in this time.

Once again, the day marched on with students bustling about their morning tasks in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and Hermione's week continued without incident despite her growing headaches.

It was a mess of parchment and barely-touched food in her corner of the Ravenclaw table, which wasn't all that out of norm. It was the _Ravenclaw_ table, after all. Intellectual pursuits rarely allow themselves to be contained.

What bothered Hermione was not the chaos currently surrounding her—in fact, she had _no idea_ what exactly was bothering her. One thing she _did_ know for sure was that the only thing that flustered her like this was when something was inconsistent with what she knew.

Now, if she could just figure out _what_ it was, that would be great.

Agitated, she pushed away her copy of _The Mediwizard's Assistant: Maladies of the Mind_ in favor of the morning issue of _The Daily Prophet_.

' _FLOO NETWORK AUTHORITY UNDER INVESTIGATION_ ' it said on the front cover with ' _AUROR OFFICE TO ANSWER FOR DAMAGES? For more details, turn to page 8…_ ' under it.

Last week, the fifth years took a trip to the Ministry of Magic as part of the school board's agenda to "inspire students with possible career ventures". As with most trips like this, the guides failed to show the students the actual hardships of the work involved in each department (such as how and why an "Exceeds Expectations" Owl in Charms was more valued in the Department of International Cooperation than an "Outstanding" in Potions), the tour being an elaborate excuse for each Ministry Department to put on the flashiest displays of their expertise, and by extension, displays of their statuses in life.

The Department of Magical Transportation staged a broomstick show with the Department of Magical Games and Sports, featuring top-of-the-line broom models encased in suspended glass tubes whizzing past each other, a disembodied voice cheerfully bragging the finer spells individually placed on each and the drawbacks and dangers of illegitimate broomstick manufacturers. While admittedly not a Quidditch fan, Hermione was suitably impressed with the charmwork involved (even if it was rather lazy of the two Departments to essentially only show them the magic of paid advertising at work).

One of the highlights of the trip was the introduction of the bright-eyed students of Hogwarts to "internal conflict" when workers of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had a skirmish over one of the displays: an array of narcotics protected by a thick layer of wards. While the Department of Intoxicating Substances had given its permission to showcase the narcotics "for educational purposes", one of the Aurors on duty noticed that a several of the vials contained less than what they initially had. Since the Department of Intoxicating Substances had been in charge of handling the potions, most of the workers under the department was in the hot seat, with the DIS trying to figure out how to arrest itself.

The whole trip went reasonably well until the students were due to reassemble at the Atrium.

Hermione flipped to page 8 of the _Prophet_. ' _PUREBLOOD SUPREMACISTS AT LARGE AGAINST SCHOOLKIDS?_ ' it said on top of the page.

' _Terror struck high last Monday as ministry officials scrambled to salvage the visiting students of Hogwarts. The well-intentioned visit turned to bloodshed when explosions set off at the lifts containing the departing students. Over ten were seriously injured, while twenty sustained minor injuries. Most of the victims caught in the unfortunate incident had some trace of Muggle decent, which leads to questions of intentional terrorism…(see page 11)…several victims, however, were reported to have become severely disoriented. Mediwitch Miriam Strout, head of the Janus Thickey Ward reports that a few have even started to insist that other students were missing. A quick review of the list of Hogwarts attendees, however, would show that the students supposedly missing do not, in fact, exist…(more on the reports on casualties on page 10)…though it has been a week since the catastrophe, the Auror Office has yet to pin a name to the responsible party…(see page 11)…the Department of Magical Transportation have released a statement assuring the public that while they are confident in the security in the network in the Ministry itself, they will remain keen on any possible…(see page 9 for the full statement)_ '

Hermione turned to page 10 and set the paper down.

She was one of those released early. Aside from the feeling of unsettlement and a few scratches, she'd walked away from the incident unharmed.

' _…several victims, however, were reported to have become severely disoriented. Mediwitch Miriam Strout, head of the Janus Thickey Ward reports that a few have even started to insist that other students were missing. A quick review of the list of Hogwarts attendees, however, would show that the students supposedly missing do not, in fact, exist…_ '

She reached for her glass of pumpkin juice and tapped on the moving pictures on the page idly.

' _…several victims, however, were reported to have become severely disoriented..._ '

Of course, she'd taken shock into account. She even went back to the Hospital Ward to consult with Madam Pomfrey before she went to the library to investigate the matter.

"You're concerned about improved spellcasting?" The matron asked incredulously once she finished her tirade about the nagging feeling of déjà vu.

Needless to say, she dropped the subject and instead asked about similar complaints from recovered students. From the reports released by the _Prophet_ and the records Madam Pomfrey allowed her to view, a pattern seemed to surface.

 _There's definitely a pattern, but is it_ significant _?_ She thought to herself, frustrated.

All of the students that recovered early came from Muggle families, with Muggleborns like her only needing to stay at St. Mungo's overnight and Half-Bloods staying for only a few days. Several purebloods on the other hand were still bedridden or, at best, confused. A few parents had even requested their children to be sent home for their recovery.

 _But non-"pure" wizards and witches in each year outnumber purebloods easily_ , she thought. _It could just be a coincidence due to uneven proportions._

But what if it wasn't?

What would this mean? Pureblood supremacists bombing Muggleborns but purebloods sustaining injuries? And how and why were they messing with their minds? Was it a variant of the Confundus Charm, or something worse?

"Oi, Granger, are you planning on eating your beans?" Terry Boot's voice jostled her from her thoughts.

It caused Hermione to blink back and notice her surroundings again, the bright light of the Great Hall suddenly coming back into focus as if she'd been sleeping with her eyes open.

"Oh," she said absently. "Go ahead, then."

"Are you alright?" Sue Li asked, eyeing Hermione's pile of parchments concernedly from a few seats away. "You aren't working yourself too much over O.W.L.s this early, are you?"

 _She's nice_.

"I'm alright," Hermione replied, offering a small, quick smile.

"If you're sure," came the dubious reply. The blonde turned her attention to the girls surrounding her, dismissing Hermione entirely. The sight gave her an odd pang in her chest.

It made sense that no one would want to sit next to her. After all, the chaos of parchment and ink at her side of the table didn't leave much room to seem inviting. But the empty seats beside her felt more pronounced while she watched Michael Corner joking heartily around with Terry Boot.

Sue Li _was_ nice. She and the other Ravenclaw girls were friendly to her, really.

They've known each other for years now.

They liked to giggle and they always smelled nice.

They always looked put-together.

They were understanding with each other's feelings.

They were vastly different from the guys, who would push each other around and laugh loudly and openly.

The guys who would get into fights and weren't afraid to break the rules.

The guys who would come up with the most ridiculous predictions of their deaths for Divination instead of doing _real_ homework.

The guys who would get distracted in class and scribble stupid comments in their schoolbooks, like that poor copy of _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ that was vandalized with numerous games of Tic-Tac-Toe because they'd forgotten to—

Her thoughts came to a halt.

For a moment, she thought she spotted the strangest thing at the Gryffindor table. An unruly head of jet black hair and a tall ginger one, laughing with arms over each other with the back of a bushy brown mane between them.

It was brief—a trick with her eyes, she was sure—but she recognized her own defiant frizz.

She blinked, and the silhouette of the merry trio disappeared. She scanned the crowd, but she could no longer see a trace of either the scrawny raven-haired lad or his gangly ginger companion.

She blinked and once again she was alone, surrounded by parchment and the strange, persistent feeling of loss.

Now more than ever, she felt out of place.


End file.
